Solitude by the Window
The Tower of Dawn ' ---- ::''One of the four Towers of Light torch-towers in Light's Reach, the Tower of Dawn stands in the north-western corner of the city. Internally, there is little of interest save for the seemingly ceaseless spiral of stairs that lead up to the zenith of the tower, and the shade of the stone used to create the tower itself - namely that of flax, to simulate the dawn. ::Thin arch-windows spaced at measured intervals provide a view of the Noble District beyond and - eventually - far below the tower as you ascend or descend. The zenith of the tower is the main point of interest, however, featuring as it does a vast torch fire that casts soft illumination down upon the area beneath the tower, acting as a beacon that can be witnessed from miles away. ::The torch is covered with a stone "/-\" shaped canopy to protect the flame from heavy downpours, while the area around the torch itself remains railed off to prevent people who have come up here from getting *too* close to the perpetually lit inferno. ---- '''Solitude, though it may be silent as light, is like light, the mightiest of agencies; for solitude is essential. All come into this world alone; all leave it alone. At the top of the Tower of Day, sat on the northern edge with his back against the north-eastern column that supports the canopy above the burning flame to his right, Serath Kahar sits in solitude. After all, it's a cozy place to be. The crackle of that burning fire provides a comforting background ambiance that contrasts with the hiss of the heavy rainfall that soaks Light's Reach and the lands around it. The sky is overcast and dark, but the warmth of the fire and the reddish-gold glow seems to chase away the shadows beyond and below to the point of establishing the top of this tower as a sanctuary of sorts. In fact, it is a wonderful place to be right now, sheltered and hidden away from the troubles of the world around it, and the problems of the people that live within it. A night as bright as day. Isn't that something to linger upon? Milora strides, calmly and silently, but with her face distorted with something very akin to unhappiness. Eventually the door of the tower is reached; her face is quiet and apparently unconcerned about the growing wetness that threatens to overtake her at that moment. The defenses of the tower, admittedly not at their strongest, are gently penetrated. Eventually the summit of the stairs is achieved, leaving Milora breathing a little more heavily than usual. Serath is regarded rather gravely; for a moment, she looks as though she's seriously considering moving down the stairs again. "A moonless night." the Wildcat Prince states, his voice the very definition of quiet reservation and calm. His gaze, however, remains fixed upon the shadowed vales to the north of Light's Reach, beneath the curtain wall beneath, the cliff face below, and the restored forests beyond. Vales that are battered beneath a haze of falling rain, shrouded by darkness and water alike. His outline remains softened by the reddish-gold hues cast from the inferno that burns to his right; the Prince himself resting upon the very edge of the tower itself, one leg crooked into a chevron, the other stretched outwards in front of him. "And so, with finger on her solemn lip, night hushed the shadowy earth." Although rather solemn in tone, these words seem to appeal enough to Milora that she is lured forward, deeper into the room. Her attention is sent in the same direction as the prince's; past a film of shining rain, she observes the same slice of the glittering city and the same stretch of nature, the less discernable the farther off. Her eyes narrow and her arms cross, but not from bad temper, and she juts her chin forward a little. A small smile finally tugs at her dark lips, and she nods her head, apparently approving of the Prince's words. "Do you expect such a flash of silver light, across these bending skies?" she asks him gently, raising an eyebrow slightly and aiming a glance in his direction. "If I could believe anyone brave enough to have faith in such a thing, I think it should probably be you." Serath finally looks back upon Milora as she offers that statement, returning a soft smile and a slight incline of his head towards his younger companion as a sign of recognition of voice and presence. "I expect a touch of thunder," he honestly purrs as a knowingly playful sparkle dances within the depths of his ethereal dusty-blue gaze. "I suspect that would suffice as a flash of silver light, from a certain point of view." That seems to be the cause of her short burst of happy laughter; for a few moments, her countenance is totally clear of shadow. Her whole body is turned toward him, and she bows her head before half-smiling and giving a mild sigh. "A touch of thunder," she repeats. "I think I can agree with you there. But you and I always seem to meet in the rain. If it occurs a third time, I may be required to take it as an omen." "Don't worry about the rain, Milora," the Wildcat notes as he drags one sprawled leg back a little to allow the female Lomasa room to sit near to himself. "You can either worry about it and get wet, try to hide from it and get wet, complain about it and get wet, or take it for what it is, get wet, and carry on with your life." There's a pause, and a feral smile interjects itself for but the most fleeting of moment. "I imagine you know what option I usually choose. Some people walk in the rain, my lady Baroness, but others just get wet." Apparently this strikes her as gospel; she nods solemnly, although she's still smiling, and looks toward the dripping windows again. "If I can not be such good friends with the rain that it pays me no damage, then at least I should try and get along with it so that it causes me no misery," she agrees. The last part of his speech makes her quirk an eyebrow. "I have actually sought you out for a reason. Maybe - or I hope that I don't interrupt a moment that would be nicer spent in solitude, and if I do, then let me be quick." "In truth, I'd have rather spent tonight snuggled beneath a warm blanket while nuzzled against a certain Duchess," Serath softly laments without losing any of his reticent warmth towards Milora, looking back out towards the storm once this has been stated. "However, it seems that Light's Reach has lit a fire beneath her, and she's as busy and motivated as I was until recently. It's strange to be on the other end of the process, but it only makes me appreciate her more for it." Here the hiss of the rain and the soft road of the Torch of Day substitutes for conversation for a few moments, until Serath finally asks, "Regardless, people *usually* seek me out for a reason, so why should this be any different? Ask away, and I'll consider your company part of the trade." Something in his words makes Milora hesitate, and when she speaks again there's an intense warmth, almost verging on gratitude, that bubbles forth from her chest and throat. "I never feel quite as content as when Norran is active, even when I do not quite agree with his actions. It makes him happy." Biting her lip for a moment, as though considering how to phrase her next words, Milora at last gives a little shrug and takes a seat not too far from the Prince, her hands folding neatly in her lap. "Prince Charming, I suppose? Flatterer. I had decided to undertake the position of Cleric in the Order, should you still be desirous of me, when it became known to me that such a decision was probably no longer necessary." "Well, there are some decisions that we make that we're not the first to hear about, as odd as that may sound," the Prince states, quietly and calmly as he watches the wall of water fall upon a land shrouded by darkness and abstract details. "Decisions that we do not realize we've made until later on when you finally become aware that experience and premonition are something to trust in. And then once you do, you finally understand that the concept that you had in your imagination - the concept that other people tell you is exceptional and will do wonders for the greater world around you - may not be quite as affluent in reality." Serath sighs long and hard in the wake of that admission, as if the weight of the collective fears and hopes of everyone in Fastheld were upon his shoulders, before finally casting that empyrean gaze of blue back upon Milora's diminutive form. "When you fight against six hundred years of legaslative and social fear and prejudice to give the Shadow Touched citizens of this Empire a chance to come out from under their holes and at least *try* to retain some level of normality and life, while burning down the very Church that caused them to fear everyone and everything that wasn't the same as them, and they won't even reach out to take it, how could I have expected them to them - and others - to accept something like the Order, Milora? How could I have expected people to believe in any other outcome but that of a repeat of the Church?" The Prince falls silent for a few moments once more, leaving the rhetorical to die upon the stones of hypothetical thought and prose. "Sometimes, Milora, we make mistakes before they've become mistakes, and resolve them just as quickly." While the Prince watches the water, Milora watches the prince. There's almost something catlike in her gaze, although it'd much less aloof, elegant or imposing. His first speech doesn't pass by her unheard; she furrows her eyebrows for a moment, as though struggling with comprehension, and then at last nods her understanding. A hand is lifted to support her chin. This next bit daunts her; her eyebrows furrow and there's a flash of sympathy, nearing sorrow, that crosses her features. She flickers there in the firelight, wispy, golden and attentive. "It would have been too much to ask, when you regard it in that light," she admits, smiling. "Too much change. The Imperial people are, as a whole, pitifully undereducated, and /especially/ the common population that makes up our majority. As a result, their minds are closed; we can hardly blame them for their situation. Such a thing would be shocking and confusing to them, and there would be unrest. An equally helpful but less dramatic solution /is/ prudent, now that I turn it over in my mind." She grins at him, shrugging her shoulders lightly. "I hardly resent it. I do not /really/ care for glory unless it follows from being useful; I suspect that being associated with such a bright organization might have been bad for my vanity." A slight quirk of a grin tugs at the corner of Serath's mouth, and Milora is rewarded with a half-glance back in her direction as she offers that final tidbit of opinion and thought. "Milora Lomasa," he purrs, shaking his head in mirth, "Vanity is not something I would have associated with you quite so readily." Following that, and complimenting the compliment quite nicely, she goes a bit pink. "Thank you," she replies, "but I am only human and am just as prone to hypocrisy, vanity and ill will as any I might condemn, and in /that/ itself you can see that I am flawed. But I want to correct myself. In the meantime, however, perhaps there is something that I can do for you. I wouldn't ask for anything really significant, because it would be the same thing as asking for honor." Following that, and complimenting the compliment quite nicely, she goes a bit pink. "Thank you," she replies, "but I am only human and am just as prone to hypocrisy, vanity and ill will as any I might condemn, and in /that/ itself you can see that I am flawed. But I want to correct myself. In the meantime, however, perhaps there is something that I can do for you. I wouldn't ask for anything really significant, because it would be the same thing as asking for honor." "No one is really flawed, Milora," Serath softly states, looking back out towards the north once more just in time to see the clouds ignite for but the briefest of moments as a rumble of thunder rolls across them, lighting the forests and fields beneath them in a flash of pure white. "Nor are they perfect. They just *are*, as warped a concept as that may be. Still..." "There's a Scourge at the Tribunal," the Wildcat finally continues, his focus lingering upon the epicenter of that flash of thunder as he speaks, his stance unchanged as he sits there watching the storm that rages around the relative serenity of the Tower of Day. "He claims to be a former Shadowbane of the Church of True Light, operating out of Sun's Keep up until last year. From what I understand, he's Sworn, and sounds like he might be a Zahir." At last Milora looks out, inhaling and perhaps for the first time appreciating the separation that exists between her and the harsh weather. She nibbles the corner of her lower lip momentarily and nods. "None of these things particularly recommend him to me. Is he there peacefully? What is his purpose?" She seems to have more question, but halts herself. Serath looks back upon Milora, evidently preferring her to the storm at hand around them. "He 'surrendered' to the Tribunal a day or two ago to an Officer of the Watch," he elaborates, catching her sea green gaze with his own. As he speaks, the flames from the nearby torch cast soft hues of warm highlight upon the otherwise matte-black leather of his surcoat and outfit. A smile flickers across his features. "Abdication to a Freelander of the Imperial Watch wasn't what he was expecting though, and I don't think he's exactly pleased at having to relinquish his title and position to one Eleria Woodharp of Hawk's Aerie. However..." One of those pauses again interjects itself before Serath continues, his tone adopting a quiet and warmth that it did not have a moment ago. "However, I was thinking that one Milora Lomasa of Celehe Hall, Arbiter of the Imperial Tribunal, would be able to smooth his ruffled feathers." Milora seems perfectly happy to look right at Serath while he speaks to her. There is a truly feline quality about him, likely due as much to his position and name as anything, that makes her feel quite as flattered by his attention as she would be by a cat's. She smiles, appearing just about to reply before he finishes his sentence and the smile falls from her face, replaced by a visible tingle of shock and then a grin the in rapidly covered by one of her hands. "You must be teasing me! - Oh, you aren't, are you? Serath Kahar, I think you put too much faith in me. I am - honored, humbled, flattered out of my head - but do you really think it a good place for me? A judge and a diplomat? Me?" "The Imperial Tribunal is going to need someone to keep an eye on the collective priests and clerics of the Imperial Cult if it's going to be doubtlessly dedicated to making something out of nothing," the Prince offers, skipping around Milora's barrage of questions without directly answering any of them. "Someone to make sure former priests of the Church of True Light don’t decide to revert back to the old zealous mantra once no one is looking, and then let the Tribunal know if such deviants should threaten what's trying to be accomplished. Equally, they could use someone out in the field to keep tabs on any developments with things like the Cult of the Dragon and the whole Sun's Keep situation. It won't be an especially demanding position, and there's a suitable amount of personal freedom involved, but..." He smiles softly. "But, you already understand the revised tenets that the Imperial Cult will be rebuilt from, and you strike me as being ambitious and apprehensive in equal contradicting measure, and I think that will work to your advantage." Now she's laughing, her eyes shut as her shoulder shake and she presses her knuckles helplessly to her teeth. At last she reclines against the back of her seat, grinning and shaking her head as though in disbelief. "Oh, Light. I do not necessarily think that I am your best choice, but I trust you; no doubt you think that because I am uncertain, I will strive to do better. Well, you are probably correct there; I do not mean to let you down." Her breath now fully caught, she gives him a rather sheepish look and nods. "I am sorry. Do continue, I would like to hear if there is more to tell." "No," Serath softly corrects, shaking his head a little to emphasize that single adverb use, "I think that because you have to pretext of who you are, and no aspirations to use an existing title or a position to force respect rather than earn it, that you are my best choice." He lets that stand alone for a few moments before adding: "You're young and cute, too, which will grant you a good deal of influence with certain people. This may also sound odd, but being Sunkissed *and* female will most likely make Scourges of a certain gender pay more attention to what you have to say." She stops there, raising her eyebrows and smiling back at him, undaunted. "Very well," she agrees at last. "If you think it wise, then it probably /is/." There's a pause, and her eyebrows furrow at this last bit of information. She looks mildly confused, and shakes her head. "I thought that men in such a position were generally, um, in no position to desire women." If the term of "matter-of-fact" were to be given a definition, the knowing and sincere tone that Serath uses as he shatters Milora's innocence regarding the supposed (and sometimes observed) relationship preferences of the former Church of True Light would probably it. "We're not talking about the men," he offers, waiting for Milora to catch on. Oh. "Oh." For a moment, Milora is blankly silent. "OH. Well. Yes. Well." Almost unconsciously, she crosses her legs tightly and sits up a bit straighter. Now as red as a beet, she shrugs both shoulders and giggles loosely. "I suppose as long as it's in the call of duty, yes? I mean ... oh, never mind!" Her nose twitches as she picks a spot above Serath's head to look at. The Wildcat can only smile in bemusement at that reaction, tilting his head a little to the left in a curiously feline fashion of inquisition. "Milora," he affectionately offers, "Why am I suddenly worried that you'll take some of the roles of an Arbiter a little /too/ seriously?" Milora's eyes drop, and she gives him a clean smile followed by a sheepish laugh. "Stop that," she protests, still looking a bit bewildered and a very pretty shade of hot pink. "I will learn as I go, and, well. Well. ... As you said, I am young and cute. If I am the heroine of any odd escapades, you will be the first to know." Her tone is light. "Norran'll be pleased." "I'm sure he will," Serath offers in counter to that final claim, taking her word for it without daring to press further. "You should get some rest then. I'll have to make the position 'official' when I take over the role of Justiciar, but a Sovereign's word is as good as law, so you shouldn't encounter too much trouble in the interim. Meanwhile, I shall ponder the depths of a pair of letters I received while enjoying the remains of this storm, and tomorrow you can see how far your visual psychological tactics will get you with our supposed Shadowbane." Reaching out with her hands, meaning to clasp one of Serath's own warmly between them, Milora's face finally begins to regain its usual bronzy tone. "Happy reading, sir. Thank you - I find that speaking to you seems to leave me feeling remarkably happy. I do not expect to be able to flirt him into cooperation, but perhaps - perhaps I can speak to him." She rises from her place, bobbing her head and upholding her smile. Milora has no trouble snaring one of Serath's gloved hands between her own, though there's that /word/ again that causes him to sigh a little. "I'm not expecting you to flirt with him," the Prince purrs, "as I suspect those visual psychological tactics will do their work without you having to say a word or strike anything but the utmost pose of professional grace and style." Milora seems to choose that exact moment to stick out her tongue at Serath, and then to jerk her eyebrows rather impishly as she pulls it back in. "As you say, Serath," she concludes warmly, because not everything escapes her notice entirely. "I will try. Good night, sweet Prince. I think that the storm will soon pass." Squeezing his hand a final time, she moves toward the stairs. "I hope not," the Prince softly responds, his tone slipping back to that level of reserved resignation it maintains when not around friends, his gaze falling back to the sheets of rain that cascade just beyond reach, and the shadowed vales and forests of the horizon beyond. "Oh, and Milora?" That makes her smile; her hand in at the top of the stairs when she is called, and she directs her attention back toward him. "Don't call me "Sir" again," the Wildcat purrs. "Good night, Serath." She beams at him, and then tackles the stairs with an almost childish bounce. ---- Return to Season 6 (2007) Category:Logs